CHAPTER XXIX.
Every thing is irrevocable. The word spoken, the deed done, isregistered in that book of fate from the page of which no solvent canblot it out. Nay, more: every word or action, however small, has someeffect on all that surrounds it; and that effect is often quite out ofall proportion to the cause. It is hard for the narrow, slippery mind ofman to conceive and hold fast the fact that a pebble dropped into theAtlantic produces a ripple which is more or less felt to all theAtlantic's shores: yet it is a fact. The eye may not be keen enough todetect it ten yards from the spot where the stone displaced the waters;but, though unseen, it exists. It may be crossed by counteractingcauses, but still it acts upon them while they act upon it; and it hasits effect,--permanent, persisting, never ending.
It is the same with man's actions. Deeds done a thousand years ago areaffecting every one of us now; and Julius Caesar has more to do with acommon-councilman of the city of London than that common-councilman everdreams of.
We have seen that Edward Langdale had little to do but to think. Thesurgeons would not let him read. He was enjoined to speak as little aspossible, for there was a shrewd suspicion that the sword which woundedhim had passed through, or very near, one of the lungs. But he employedthought to good purpose,--to calm all angry feelings, to quenchrepinings, to humble himself to God's will. He was naturally led by thistrain of thought to follow, in reference to his own case, some of thefine threads out of which the great network of cause and effect iswrought.
"Why should I be so angry with my brother?" he thought. "If he had nottaken from me my property, what a different creature I should havebeen!--a country squire with a pack of hounds; a justice of the peacesome day, to hear old women's plaints about robbed orchards andviolated hen-roosts! I should never have been Lord Montagu's page; Ishould never have met with dear, dear Lucette. Sweet girl! where is shenow? Does she think of me still? Does she ever regret the indissolublebond that binds us together?"
Then the train of thought became somewhat more gloomy. He recollectedthat for two long years--how sadly, sadly long they seemed inprospect!--he was not to see her. And what might happen in the interval?All means, all arts, would be used to induce her to forget him, to breaktheir union, perhaps to make her love some other; and he felt for aninstant, as he thus pondered, the little, sharp sting of jealousy,--themost poignant of pangs.
The world has always been full of tales of woman's fickleness, andEdward had heard them,--tales in which her firmness and her truth areoften forgotten altogether. But speedily came better thoughts and noblerconfidence. Lucette was full of gentleness, was of a tender, lovingnature, he knew; but he thought he had remarked, in the various scenesthrough which they had passed,--scenes well calculated to try a younggirl to the utmost,--a strength, a constancy of purpose which bade himtrust.
"She will not abandon me," he thought. "She will not bestow that loveupon another which was first mine,--is mine by right. Dear, beautifulgirl! there is truth and enduring love in those clear, liquid eyes. Ohthat I could see her again but for one moment! Oh for one embrace, onekiss!"
The day declined, and night came on. They brought the invalid the scantysupper that was allowed him, and, an hour or two after, Pierrot came totake away the light; for Edward, who had slept very lightly for severalnights, had expressed a wish that the night-lamp and the good folks whohad hitherto watched him might be withdrawn. He thought he should restbetter, he said, if he were quite alone and in darkness. He was notmistaken. From ten till twelve he slept more soundly than he had donefor many days. He heard the abbey clock strike twelve, however, but itwas but a momentary interruption of his slumber; and he was turninground to sleep again, when the door of the chamber creaked a littleupon its hinges. The room was large and the windows well shaded; but, asEdward lay with his face toward the door, he could see a gleam ofmoonlight partly interrupted at the doorway, and he gazed to discoverwho was coming in. The figure was small, the garments those of a woman;and the youth thought, "One of the good sisters, to see if I am sleepingwell. She means it kindly; but I wish she had not come."
Unwilling to have any conversation, he shut his eyes again and affectedto be still asleep; but the door was gently closed, and then a lightfootfall crossed the floor. It stopped near his bedside, and then a handlightly touched him; for the room was very dark, and probably thevisitor, whoever it was, did not see any thing distinctly.
"This is strange," thought Edward: "the sisters commonly have a lampwith them."
The stranger paused where she stood, and seemed to be gazing down uponthe spot where he lay; and then she quietly crossed the room to where asmall crack between the blind and the wall showed a very narrow ray ofmoonshine. She quietly and softly pulled back the blind a very littlefarther, so as to admit the slightest possible light into the room, andthen returned to the bedside and gazed down again. A moment or twoafter, Edward felt the pressure of a cool, delicious kiss upon hischeek. He could affect sleep no longer, and opened his eyes; but it wasin vain. He could neither see the face nor distinguish the garments ofhis visitor; and, stretching forth his hand, he caught her dress,saying, "Who are you? what is it you seek?"
She answered not; but, kneeling down by his bedside, she threw her armsround him, covering his lips and brow with kisses; and he thought hefelt a warm drop or two fall from her eyes upon his cheek.
"Good Heaven!" exclaimed the young man, raising himself on his arm; "whoare you? What is this? I should know that kiss; but I do not--I cannotbelieve in such happiness. Tell me, tell me who you are!"
She put her soft cheek, wet with tears, close to his, and whispered,"Dear, dear Edward! Who am I? Who but your own Lucette,--your own wife?And did you know my kiss? Never, never forget it, Edward." And shekissed him again and again, as if she would fix the soft pressure of herlips upon his memory forever.
"Never! never!" he said, putting his arm round her. "But am I in adream? I cannot believe that this is a waking truth."
"Lie down," said Lucette, "and do not be agitated, dear husband;otherwise I must leave you. It is no dream, though it seems almost asmuch so to me as to you. I thought you would forgive me for waking you;and I could not be so near you, and you ill and wounded, without oneword of affection before we go on. I am afraid it was cruel and wrong,when you were sleeping so calmly. But tell me yourself that you arebetter,--that you are getting well. The good sister who told me allabout your wound said you would soon be able to ride out. They are allanxious about you here; but who can be so anxious as I am?"
"But tell me more, dear Lucette," said Edward, disobeying her, and stillholding her to his heart. "How came you in Savoy? how came you here? howdid you find your way hither?"
"I came on with the family of Monsieur de Rohan," answered Lucette. "Hejudged it best we should all quit France for a season and go to Turin orVenice, while he endeavored to deliver Rochelle; and when we arrivedhere the first thing the nuns told us was of the young foreign cavalierwho lay wounded under their care. When I heard your name, I seemed for amoment to have no feeling in my heart, no thought in my brain; but Isoon recovered. I got the good sister who attends upon you to tell meall; and, by prayers and entreaties and the gold cross I used to wear, Iinduced her to bring me here, telling her that you are my husband,--myown wedded husband. But I promised her, Edward, not to agitate you ortalk to you too much, and only to stay five minutes."
"Oh, stay, Lucette! stay!" said Edward, forgetting all consequences."Dearest girl, do not leave me! Lord Montagu will be back to-morrow.Must you go on to Turin?"
"Remember your promise to the cardinal, Edward," she answered. "I mustremember mine to good Sister Agatha. If I break my promises to others,you will not believe mine to you,--although I fear I have alreadysomewhat failed, and agitated you more than I intended."
"Five minutes have not passed yet," said the youth, feeling that she wasabout to rise from her knees, where she had hitherto remained. "Oh, no!it is but an instant since you came, dearest! Another kiss, dearLucette. Could I have h
ad them before, I should have been well erethis." He took another, and not only one; and, between, he told her hewas really better, and would soon be well, and that he would try somemeans to see her soon, and at the end of two years would seek her as hiswife, whoever might oppose; and she on her part promised that he shouldnot seek in vain, but should find her ever ready to go with him to theends of the earth.
But the five minutes were certainly outstayed; and Lucette's heart wasreproaching her, and Edward was thinking how he could ever part withher, when the door opened again, and Sister Agatha came in to remind thepoor girl of her promise.
It was a hard parting,--harder, perhaps, than it had been before; andmany another word had to be spoken and many another kiss to be taken erethey could separate. Sister Agatha was no restraint upon them, and, tosay sooth, entered into their feelings with sympathies not altogetherconsistent with her vows. What they said she could not understand, forthey spoke in English; and, though she had a certain portion of Frenchand a good deal more of Italian, the rich Anglo-Saxon tongue was to thegood old soul a most harsh and unintelligible jargon, and she wonderedthat such pretty lips as Lucette's could pronounce the hideous sounds.The five minutes were lengthened to half an hour after her arrival, forLucette felt she was breaking no promise when the person to whom it hadbeen made was present and not an unconsenting party; but in the endSister Agatha insisted that they should part, asking Lucette in areproachful tone if she would kill the poor young man.
"I have been selfish," said Lucette, rising from the edge of the bedwhere she had been sitting; and, kissing him once more, with a long,tender, lingering kiss, she left him.
Thus they parted, not to meet again for a longer period than theyanticipated. They could hardly be said to have seen each other, forSister Agatha had left her lamp at the door, and the ray of moonlightwhich Lucette had let in was very faint; but that interview, short as ithad been, was something for memory to fix upon during many months.
The first effect upon Edward Langdale was what Sister Agatha haddreaded. It had agitated him much, and for more than one hour afterLucette had left him his heart beat and his brain throbbed, and sleepdeserted him as if she never would return. But the reaction was balmy.He had met her again; he had held her in his arms; he had tasted oncemore the honey of her lips; and there was a sort of superstitiousfeeling about him as if a bad spell had been broken. He had felt a dreadtill then that some old rhyme he had heard in his young days was to beverified in his own case. It was somewhat to the following effect,though I know not if memory retains it rightly:--
"They had met, they had loved, they had parted, And met no more till both were broken-hearted."
It had haunted him, that old distich, ever since he left Lucette underthe care of the Duc de Rohan; but now the vision was dispelled. They hadmet again, and his Lucette loved him still as warmly, fondly, as hecould wish. It was a dexter omen; and, with more faith than ever Romanaugur possessed, he interpreted it to forebode future happiness. Joy,however, is wakeful as well as sorrow; and, even after the first effectof agitation and excitement had passed away, he lay sleepless andthoughtful, but very, very happy. He remembered many a word he couldhave wished to have uttered, many a question he would willingly haveasked; but the great question of the heart was answered. She loved himstill unchanged; and Edward was at a time of life when hope and trustwere sure to rise out of such assurance. Gradually fatigue andexhaustion did their work upon the body, and, through the body, upon themind. Had there been trouble in the spirit, he might, and probablywould, have slept a few minutes, from mere weariness, to wake speedilywith irritation, if not fever. But the heart was at rest; and as soon ashis eyes closed he slept like a wearied but happy child, calmly,profoundly, long, and only woke some three hours after every otherperson in the abbey. His look was relieved, his color better, his eyesmore bright. During that night he had made the first rapid stride towardconvalescence.
Oh, if physicians would but take pains to discover whether the maladylies most in the mind or the body, what cures might be performed!--ifthey could but find the medicine! But happiness is a mithridate socompound and so fine that, search over the world, you will find fewplaces where it can be procured, and never--alas! never--pure andunadulterated. That villanous serpent has left his slime on every thing.
The whole day Edward Langdale waited impatiently for the return of LordMontagu; but he waited in vain: Lord Montagu did not appear. Another andanother day passed: still he was absent. Young men calculate not themany impediments which lie between design and performance. "He couldeasily do this; he might easily have done that," is the constant cry;when in truth it would have been impossible for the person spoken of tohave done any thing more than he did do. The smallest thing in the worldoverthrows the grandest scheme, frustrates the most positive assurance.Is it accident,--that refuge of the destitute? Is it not rather thequiet intervention of that ruling Power which, foreseeing all man'sacts, bends the results to the accomplishment of his own predeterminedpurposes?
Edward Langdale was impatient. Strength was returning fast: when hecoughed, his handkerchief came from his lips unstained with blood; hiswound was nearly healed, and he longed to pursue his career of activeexertion. But he did not know that the Duke of Savoy had been out tokill deer in the mountains, and that Lord Montagu was forced to waithis return. In the mean time, however, he rose earlier each day. He wentout; he roamed round the abbey; he visited the city; and the only thingwhich retarded his complete recovery was his impatience. He was eager toget on,--too eager. He had always been too eager; but there was a greatdifference between his eagerness now and that of former years. Hithertohe had been moved only by the vague, aspiring hope of youth,--so oftendisappointed till the frost of age and the chill of adversity havewithered the plant and blighted the flower and destroyed the fruit underthe bud,--the hope of doing something great in life. Now he had a moredefinite object, a clearer purpose. It was Lucette.
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